Here, it is here, the close of the year,
And with it a spiteful letter.
My name in song has done him much wrong,
For himself has done much better.
O little bard, is your lot so hard,
Rhymes and rhymes in the range of the times!
This faded leaf, our names are as brief;
Greater than I–is that your cry?
Brief, brief is a summer leaf,
Chronological Index of Tennyson's Works
Timeline of Tennyson's Life
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